


(From Between) Clenched Teeth

by LokianaWinchester



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Emotions, Happy Ending, M/M, illya's inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-07-26
Packaged: 2019-06-16 20:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15445668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LokianaWinchester/pseuds/LokianaWinchester
Summary: "It was not easy to hate Napoleon, not even with all the reasons he had, because Napoleon was charming.Illya was not usually one to be charmed. But Napoleon posed as an exception and it was the most annoying thing Illya had ever experienced. It gave him one more thing to hate.Illya hated his own inability to hate Napoleon like he should."Illya's emotional journey from hating his Cowboy to tolerating him and maybe more...





	(From Between) Clenched Teeth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [el3anorrigby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/el3anorrigby/gifts).



Ever since he had met Napoleon, Illya knew that there was something between them.

At first it was hatred. Illya did not hate Napoleon per se. But it was a close thing; Illya hated everything about the man and there was so, so much about him.

Illya hated Napoleon’s voice, the smooth American English that came over his lips so easily, as did more other languages than Illya dared to count. He hated that Napoleon had this gift, he hated that he struggled with it himself and most of all he hated that Napoleon knew this.

Illya hated Napoleon’s clothes. They were horrible, too polished, too posh, too good to do any kind of work in. He hated the figure, Napoleon cut in them; they were not models, they were spies. Their job was not to stand out from the crowd but to blend in and Napoleon was not blending in at all.

Illya hated Napoleon’s face. It was terrible, a bad face, looking down on Illya even though he was taller than the American. It was embarrassing, but Illya did not see how he could change it. Napoleon seemed to be the worst person and it even showed on his face.

Illya got all that from a mission briefing and their first encounter. A mission which he failed, the first mission he had failed in a long time.

It gave him only limited satisfaction to feel his arm wrapped around Napoleon’s neck, holding him like a lamb before slaughter, feeling him struggle against the tight hold. It was good, sure, but it was not enough. Then he was told not to kill the guy and immediately Napoleon bounced back to being insufferable.

Illya hated Napoleon. When the man started talking about his parents, Illya lost his last shred of any will he had not to hate Napoleon. Illya swore to himself that he would hate Napoleon with all his being and he would let him know.

It was not easy to hate Napoleon, not even with all the reasons he had, because Napoleon was charming.

Illya was not usually one to be charmed. But Napoleon posed as an exception and it was the most annoying thing Illya had ever experienced. It gave him one more thing to hate.

Illya hated his own inability to hate Napoleon like he should.

Next came the spite. It took Illya some time to come to terms with their joint operation. Working with Napoleon was not going to be easy, but if the Russian was one thing, it was determined. So, he clenched his teeth, put a frown on his face and went shopping with his pretend-fiancée.

It was spite, which Illya felt when Napoleon decided to meddle with Gaby’s outfits, trying to outsmart, outstyle, outdo Illya. He would not have it. Illya felt like the frown was going to be plastered to his face for all eternity, but for all the anger he felt, his brain did not seem able to come up with an insult other than ‘Cowboy’.

Oddly enough Napoleon took to the nickname. He seemed almost proud to have it and to get Illya to react to ‘Peril’ as fast as he did.

It was embarrassing, really, and it only added to the intense feeling of spite Illya felt. The more Napoleon showed of himself, the more Illya was overcome by the urge to be better than him. But better was a subjective term and even more difficult to measure than usual, when their goals were so completely different from each other. Illya was supposed to be an engaged architect, while Napoleon should pose as an art student.

Gaby was not stupid. Of course, she noticed that something was off about him. She did not know him, really; not without the influence Napoleon doubtlessly had on him, but she was smart enough to be suspicious anyway. Or maybe Illya was just too bad at hiding his feelings, or at hiding his true self. It was exhausting, being angry all the time, but he was determined. He had been no less open about emotions before meeting Napoleon, so the change was not too much. Just enough for Gaby to notice.

Being just a bit more open about his emotions, about himself would have been dangerous in his country, and especially in his job; possibly even fatal if anybody found out that he was gay. Illya had tried to fight it with all his might, but without results. He had never been particularly talkative or eager to connect to others, but when his feelings, his desires did not go away and colleagues started asking about why he had no girl, he threw himself into the job even more, blaming that, shutting himself off from everybody and not failing a single mission until Napoleon came along.

The moment Illya woke up coughing out salty water until he was retching, he knew something was different.

As much as he wanted to hate Napoleon for his stupid face and his stupid clothes and his stupid brain, and as much as he despised not actually doing so, he could not even want to do that anymore. Napoleon had saved his life.

When the man pulled him onto the hard concrete of the harbour, Illya pried his eyes open to look at Napoleon. He was watching Illya’s face closely, too closely for his taste. Illya could see that he was worried and at that moment his emotions of dislike and anger faded to make way for something else, something Illya was not in any way prepared for, something he wanted to fight against with his entire being: attraction.

As Illya saw the blue eyes moving, gaze wandering across his own face, he noticed for the first time how stunning they were. Illya should have known before that Napoleon was exactly his type, and yet he had been so caught up in his own doomed emotions that his mind had been clouded until he had almost died. This was not good.

Illya’s eyes were glued to a single drop of water the next second, which was forming at the tip of a dark strand of hair next to Napoleon’s ear. The drop landed on his cheekbone, making its way to the tip of his nose, where Napoleon wiped it away instinctively, jerking back, standing up and extending a hand towards Illya.  The Russian saw the smooth skin, the slight stubble, the soaked hair clearly in front of him, as if Napoleon was still leaning over him, when he grabbed the hand and let Napoleon help him to his legs. After a few moments of dizziness, Illya noticed that Napoleon was still holding his hand with a firm grip. It was cold, damp, not at all something that was in the least attractive, if he was being honest, and yet this bit of contact between them made all the difference to Illya. He pulled back his hand; he could not allow this.

It got worse, over the short time in which he barely even processed what his realisation meant to him, it got so much worse. The ride back to their hotel was bad enough, clinging to Napoleon, feeling the muscles shifting under his clothes, feeling the warmth radiating from him as their clothes slowly dried in the mild breeze.

It got worse when he switched on the listening device and heard Victoria’s moans. Illya clenched his teeth, he did not want to hear her. He did not want to know what Napoleon was doing. Frantically he switched it off, this was wrong. Gaby’s comment did not help.

“Doesn’t sound like he needs your help,” she said, leaving him with the irrational wish that Napoleon would need his help. It frustrated him beyond measure.

Only later that night, lying in bed, he realised that the thing that had bothered him more than Gaby’s words, had not been Victoria’s moans; it had been the lack of Napoleon’s.

Seeing Napoleon in slacks, shirt, waistcoat, lounging in his room was nothing new at all, but Illya’s defences towards himself were utterly destroyed and it made him weak. He was no longer hidden away behind layers of hatred and rage, only a frown was separating him from a world that knew the real him and it frightened Illya. Seeing Napoleon like this nearly managed to tear down this last shred of integrity. The man really looked exceptionally well and while Illya had technically known that, he was all the more overwhelmed now, by how well the outfit accentuated Napoleon’s body. It was a stunning sight and again Illya hated himself because of Napoleon. Because the man could not simply leave him in peace. Thinking back on everything Illya probably had not ever been good at disliking Napoleon, he had just thought he was.

Gaby was still asleep in their room leaving Illya alone in the room with Napoleon, who got up from the chair and strolled over to the closet.

“Thank you,” Illya said. The words came out weak. He felt weak; Napoleon had a unique ability to disarm him.

“For what?” Napoleon asked, turning around to look at him while reaching for the handle.

“For…” he hesitated. Saying this meant acknowledging his debt to the American. “For saving my life.”

Napoleon cocked his head, looking slightly taken aback.

“You’re welcome, Peril.” He opened the closet and took out a tie, folded up the collar of his shirt to start tying it, while walking towards Illya. The Russian’s eyes were fixed on the practiced movements of Napoleon’s fingers, the gentle curve of his neck, that ended in a sharp jaw line. He was stunning.

Illya swallowed, trying to hide what he was feeling, trying to stop himself from being too obvious, because Napoleon was observant.

“Like what you’re seeing?” Napoleon asked. Illya took a step back, his hands curled into fists. He swallowed again.

“I don’t know what you say.”

Napoleon smirked. “I’m way out of your league, Peril.” With a final tuck on his collar, Napoleon just raised an eyebrow in response.

After a moment of stunned silence, Illya found his voice again, trying to suppress the anger as he watched the American sit back down into the chair.

“You sure Victoria believes you?” he asked, frown back on his face.

Of course, Napoleon suspected he was still bugged, since he did not hesitate even a second before he answered.

“I gave it everything I had. Believe me.” Illya grimaced. He sure had, there was no way for Illya not to believe him. Illya’s hands were hurting from how tightly he pressed his hands into fists, but the pain grounded him.

Following Gaby, all Illya could think of was Napoleon’s words. He should have been more careful.

Now all he could do was hope that Napoleon only meant this as a joke, that he was not serious about what he had said. That he did not know.

He was so distracted by his thoughts that it took him longer than usual to install his gear. But as it turned out, he tuned in at the exact right time; just to catch Gaby giving them up. He ran for his life, hurdling over the fence, sprinting to the car.

It was terrible. He was standing between two evils, having to choose for the lesser one. The lesser evil was facing Napoleon. Checking the tracker he had put on the man, Illya frowned. Napoleon was not where he was supposed to be. Damned be that Cowboy. But Illya was going to find him; as long as Napoleon could not outsmart him, Illya would always find him.

On his way following the weak signal of the tracking device, Illya thought about Napoleon getting hurt. He clenched his teeth, gripped the steering wheel and took a deep breath.

His feelings about the other spy were too complicated to take apart now; he wished both for Napoleon to get hurt, just to teach him a lesson, and at the same time anything but that. It was infuriating, just like the man himself.

The facility was heavily guarded and even though Illya should have expected this, it still unsettled him. Each guard he took down made him more certain that Napoleon was being harmed here. It was a quiet affair, taking down the goons. He fought his way to the end of a corridor, disabling the last guard, peering through the door.

Napoleon was strapped to a chair; an electric chair.

He was pale.

His nose was bleeding.

His mouth was hanging open.

His hair was ruffled, damp with sweat.

His eyes were half closed, looking vaguely in Illya’s direction, but there was no guarantee from where Illya was standing, that he was not seriously harmed. On the contrary, he looked bad.

But then he moved his eyes, gaze shifting ever so slightly to meet Illya’s, who immediately lifted a finger to his lips, gesturing to Napoleon. When he looked away again, Illya moved, opening the door quietly, standing behind the man, who had made Napoleon suffer like this.

“I never thought I’d say this, but I’m actually glad to see you.” So he was alright.

The torturer turned around. Rudi. Illya grabbed him by the neck.

“Free him,” he hissed. He felt shivers running through the man as he dragged him over to Napoleon.

As soon as the restraints were gone, Napoleon jerked up, stumbling forward – into Illya’s arms. He pushed Rudi away, as he wrapped his arms around Napoleon, steadying him. For a second the American’s head slumped against his shoulder and Illya thought he was going to have to finish this alone, but then Napoleon’s legs became steadier and he leaned against the chair instead. Illya manhandled Rudi into it, fastening the restraints, proceeding exactly how Napoleon had been connected.

He stepped on the pedal.

The scream Rudi let out was horrifying, but it was nothing compared to the absolute dread, Illya saw rushing over Napoleon’s features. This was not right. Napoleon was supposed to be his opposite, and here Illya was, relating to his pain, wanting to soothe it.

He wanted to hold Napoleon again and it was not good at all, because they had a mission to complete, which was even more difficult having been betrayed by Gaby.

The rest of the mission went over in a blur. Illya remembered bits and pieces. Rudi burning, a briefing with a posh Englishman and killing a man.

Saving Gaby.

And Napoleon. From the way he behaved, nothing showed what extreme torture he had gone through not a day before.

Getting the repeated order to kill him, should not have been as much of a shock as it turned out to be. Holding back his anger around Napoleon for so long, repressing his violent tendencies, because he cared for the man; it showed. Because now that Napoleon was not here, Illya had nothing to hold him back and he went wild, destroying the hotel room until the rage faded, and he was left feeling empty.

Even if he suppressed his feelings, he was not going to be able to kill Napoleon. And even if he could come to terms with his feelings, he had no guarantee that Napoleon wanted anything to do with him.

Slowly, Illya made his way to Napoleon’s room, knocking with sore knuckles.

He opened the door to see Napoleon leaning over his suitcase, obviously just finishing up with the rest of his clothes.

The disk was there.

And of course Napoleon knew about his orders.

But instead of shooting Illya as he should have to gain his permanent freedom from the CIA, using this win as leverage to buy himself out of there, Napoleon threw a watch at Illya. His father’s watch.

In that moment, Illya knew that the last feelings of hate had vanished from his heart. Instead it echoed with the feeling of _Napoleon_.

“Thank you, Peril,” he spoke up.

“For what?” Illya asked. It should be him thanking the other agent.

“For saving my life.” Napoleon was stepping closer to him. Illya dared not move, his answer was barely more than a whisper.

“Of course, Cowboy.”

A second later, Napoleon’s lips were on his own.

The kiss took Illya by surprise, but he quickly recovered from the shock, gripping Napoleon’s upper arms.

“Is this plan to kill me?” Illya asked when Napoleon pulled back.

Breathy laughter escaped the American’s lips.

“No. This is me saying thanks.”

Illya raised an eyebrow, looking at Napoleon’s face. He had never seen it this close before, and he doubted he would ever get enough of it.

“I thought I was… what was it? Out of your league?” Illy asked, hiding his anxiety over the answer behind a cocky grin.

“I’ll take that back if you kiss me again, Peril,” Napoleon shot back without hesitating even a second. And neither did Illya.

Burning the disk was a cleansing experience. It let Illya forget about his environment for a moment. The flame was small and delicate, yet so destructive. Illya could barely fathom all the power they had held, burning with so little effort into a pile of dust.

Standing on the balcony, a drink in his hand, Napoleon next to him, fingers brushing against Illya’s hands was just as cleansing.  The cheeky glint in Napoleon’s eyes gave Illya hope for the future. He knew he was not going to spend it with the American, but he had gained a friend and more here and that was the important thing. When Gaby joined them, Illya smiled and felt Napoleon’s stare on his face reminding him that he did not smile much. But it felt right.

It felt right to turn to Gaby when Waverly spoke up. They were going to stay together as a team. Only when Gaby smiled at him and nodded, Illya turned to Napoleon.

The look on his face told Illya everything he needed to know.

Napoleon was just as happy as Illya was. They were given more time.

And Illya was going to make every second count.

**Author's Note:**

> Firstly, I feel like I should say that this was written for the prompt "You're out of my league" which I found somewhere on tumblr. Second of all, I only looked at it briefly after finishing it, so: many apologies about any mistakes.  
> As always, your kudos and especially comments are greatly appreciated <3


End file.
